Like Never-Played Symphonies, Morrissey's greatest miserablism languishes on forgotten B-sides. From Munich's unlucky boys of red to "The men full of bluff and ardour" from the Old Valhalla Road funeral parlour, it is a frustrating but fitting fate. Another flip-side figure is the "silly old man" in "misguided trousers" who won't get off the rock'n'roll stage. It is a characteristically uncharitable take on ageing musicianship which ignores those few, like Leonard Cohen, who can promise a storming show in their 70s. But we all know the thinning ponytail of dyed hair which swings to a stolid 12-bar – especially after a weekend of Sir Cliffs and Sir Pauls fawning over HM. It has just been confirmed that The Queen is Dead's author will not be joining their ranks. He will never rock all over the world while shoring up the status quo. Instead, he will sink into a solemn retirement at 55. We'll miss the music, but dignity surely precludes Sir Steven Morrissey.